She may be a Boulder liberal, but Dorothy Rupert, a onetime high school teacher, has managed to get some things done during her fourteen years in Colorado's Republican-dominated state legislature -- nine in the House and five in the Senate. Rupert has worked tirelessly for civil rights for minorities, women and homosexuals, as well as for the well-being of Colorado's children. She has championed education and for years tried to create a House-Senate committee on children and families. Last year she was successful -- after years of wrangling -- in getting the legislature to outlaw the genital mutilation of young girls in Colorado. Though term-limited out, Rupert does not intend to go quietly into the sunset. She is still working for the renovation of the State Capitol, and she intends to remain active as an educator and organizer.

She may be a Boulder liberal, but Dorothy Rupert, a onetime high school teacher, has managed to get some things done during her fourteen years in Colorado's Republican-dominated state legislature -- nine in the House and five in the Senate. Rupert has worked tirelessly for civil rights for minorities, women and homosexuals, as well as for the well-being of Colorado's children. She has championed education and for years tried to create a House-Senate committee on children and families. Last year she was successful -- after years of wrangling -- in getting the legislature to outlaw the genital mutilation of young girls in Colorado. Though term-limited out, Rupert does not intend to go quietly into the sunset. She is still working for the renovation of the State Capitol, and she intends to remain active as an educator and organizer.

One day Ken Chlouber's dressed in a red, white and blue flag-patterned biker shirt with the sleeves cut off, helping Governor Bill Owens's skinny, citified son sit up on the back of a mule to promote Fairplay's Burro Days; the next he's sporting $1,000 lizard-hide cowboy boots and a $190 studded shirt from Billy Martin ("that drugstore-cowboy store, for the silk-underwear cowboy," Chlouber calls it), accented with some of Senator Ben Nighthorse Campbell's turquoise-and-silver jewelry. "I got reason," the Leadville Republican says of his very expensive duds. "When I was a kid and we were on the farm, my mama made my shirts out of chicken-feed sacks. I swore if I ever had money in my pocket, I wouldn't do that anymore. So I buy high-dollar shirts and boots, and the hell with the rest of it." That's the same bootstraps spirit the long-haired, gun-lovin', law-passin' assistant majority leader brings to the Colorado Senate, and he wants his image to match: "I represent western and rural Colorado, which by its nature is strong, tough, independent and resilient. I hope I'm the same way. What you don't want to do down here at the Capitol is to blend in. I want to be a piece of cotton in a sea of polyester. I want them to know I was here, and the day I'm gone, I want them to miss me." That's guaranteed, pardner.

One day Ken Chlouber's dressed in a red, white and blue flag-patterned biker shirt with the sleeves cut off, helping Governor Bill Owens's skinny, citified son sit up on the back of a mule to promote Fairplay's Burro Days; the next he's sporting $1,000 lizard-hide cowboy boots and a $190 studded shirt from Billy Martin ("that drugstore-cowboy store, for the silk-underwear cowboy," Chlouber calls it), accented with some of Senator Ben Nighthorse Campbell's turquoise-and-silver jewelry. "I got reason," the Leadville Republican says of his very expensive duds. "When I was a kid and we were on the farm, my mama made my shirts out of chicken-feed sacks. I swore if I ever had money in my pocket, I wouldn't do that anymore. So I buy high-dollar shirts and boots, and the hell with the rest of it." That's the same bootstraps spirit the long-haired, gun-lovin', law-passin' assistant majority leader brings to the Colorado Senate, and he wants his image to match: "I represent western and rural Colorado, which by its nature is strong, tough, independent and resilient. I hope I'm the same way. What you don't want to do down here at the Capitol is to blend in. I want to be a piece of cotton in a sea of polyester. I want them to know I was here, and the day I'm gone, I want them to miss me." That's guaranteed, pardner.

He could have settled into his golden years like everyone else, content to retire in his nice, Spanish-tiled mansion on the 7th Avenue Parkway, collect Social Security and wait for visits from the grandkids, but not the man from Holly. No, 71-year-old former Colorado governor Roy "Roamin'" Romer just couldn't let it go. In early June, Romer quit his post as chairman of the Democratic Party's national convention to become the superintendent of one of the largest and most contentious school systems in the country, the Los Angeles Unified School District. Why? Well, as he told the New York Times, "I've always been a risk-taker. That's something in my nature, I guess. I like tough jobs. I like new things. But if you bring skills to the table, how can you justify not using them? I can't just go back to the stream in Colorado to fish. That's not the way to go." We wish you luck, Roy. But we'll keep a fly-rod waiting, just in case.
He could have settled into his golden years like everyone else, content to retire in his nice, Spanish-tiled mansion on the 7th Avenue Parkway, collect Social Security and wait for visits from the grandkids, but not the man from Holly. No, 71-year-old former Colorado governor Roy "Roamin'" Romer just couldn't let it go. In early June, Romer quit his post as chairman of the Democratic Party's national convention to become the superintendent of one of the largest and most contentious school systems in the country, the Los Angeles Unified School District. Why? Well, as he told the New York Times, "I've always been a risk-taker. That's something in my nature, I guess. I like tough jobs. I like new things. But if you bring skills to the table, how can you justify not using them? I can't just go back to the stream in Colorado to fish. That's not the way to go." We wish you luck, Roy. But we'll keep a fly-rod waiting, just in case.

Best performance by a Hollywood actor playing a onetime Coloradan

Chad Lowe

When Chad Lowe, Rob's little brother, left the set of Take Me Home: The John Denver Story, he must have thanked God he wasn't a country boy. Certainly the TV movie, which aired in April, had this state cringing over the golly-gee look at our most saccharine adopted son, Henry Deutschendorf, who single-handedly inspired the '70s rush to the Rockies. Played by Lowe, Denver came off as a squeaky-voiced, wire-rimmed Muppet -- perhaps in tribute to what was arguably Denver's best performance, on Sesame Street. Far out.

Best performance by a Hollywood actor playing a onetime Coloradan

Chad Lowe

When Chad Lowe, Rob's little brother, left the set of Take Me Home: The John Denver Story, he must have thanked God he wasn't a country boy. Certainly the TV movie, which aired in April, had this state cringing over the golly-gee look at our most saccharine adopted son, Henry Deutschendorf, who single-handedly inspired the '70s rush to the Rockies. Played by Lowe, Denver came off as a squeaky-voiced, wire-rimmed Muppet -- perhaps in tribute to what was arguably Denver's best performance, on Sesame Street. Far out.

His legacy entrenched, Roy Romer seemed happy to have Coloradans remember him as the rugged, bomber-jacket-wearing governor he was. But less than two years after leaving office, history was already being rewritten -- or repainted, in the case of Romer's official portrait. In what turned out to be a bit of a secret operation, Romer removed from the State Capitol a portrait that depicted him in his trademark jacket, giving the thumbs-up sign; in its place, he installed a Daniel Sprick portrait that showed our former guv in a staid gray suit with a blue tie. He made the switch to "honor the tradition" of hanging more formal portraits in the Capitol, Romer explained. Too bad: He must have forgotten that a man makes the clothes, not the other way around.

His legacy entrenched, Roy Romer seemed happy to have Coloradans remember him as the rugged, bomber-jacket-wearing governor he was. But less than two years after leaving office, history was already being rewritten -- or repainted, in the case of Romer's official portrait. In what turned out to be a bit of a secret operation, Romer removed from the State Capitol a portrait that depicted him in his trademark jacket, giving the thumbs-up sign; in its place, he installed a Daniel Sprick portrait that showed our former guv in a staid gray suit with a blue tie. He made the switch to "honor the tradition" of hanging more formal portraits in the Capitol, Romer explained. Too bad: He must have forgotten that a man makes the clothes, not the other way around.

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